


Johnny Boy

by TheUnassumingDoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Dark fic, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnny Boy, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Reichenbach, Sad, Self-Harm, Seriously guys read the tags, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Suicide, Triggers, Twenty One Pilots (Freeform)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5859211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnassumingDoctor/pseuds/TheUnassumingDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John deals with the aftermath of The Reichenbach fall.</p><p>This is a songfic using the song Johnny Boy by Twenty One Pilots</p><p>Please check the tags before reading, this one gets dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Johnny Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a song fic using the song [Johnny Boy by Twenty One Pilots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GowHFaOaEpU). It is going to be very beneficial to hear the song before reading the story. The lyrics are woven into the story using John's thoughts and activities. Please read the tags and make sure this is something you want to read. There are many triggers in this story and I don't want someone to get triggers because they didn't read the tags.   
> I have no beta and all rights go to Moffat 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Self-Harm  
> Cutting  
> Suicide  
> Major Character Death

_He stays home from work this time_

 

He collapses into the chair. The bottle reaches his lips and sinks back down, a repetitive action that barley crosses his mind anymore. Up and back. Swallow. Repeat. A new bottle when the last as given up its final drop. Drowned out the thoughts that fight to overpower him. Falling. Falling.

John Watson can’t do it anymore. Can’t pretend that he is fine when he is shattering into a million obsidian pieces, each as black as he feels.

 

_He never really told his wife_

_He never really told a lie but this time he decides that it's alright._

                Mary doesn’t know about the Before-John. Doesn’t know about the adventures. Doesn’t know about the chases, following that long black coat… John locks that part of him away. The After-John is a quiet doctor. Nothing more, nothing less. Ordinary. A kind man who goes to the surgery and comes home. Like clock-work. He follows his routine and does what is asked of him.

                Mary thinks he went to work this morning. He let her. John knows he should feel guilty about lying to her. He loves her, and she him. But John doesn’t feel guilty for lying. Its better this way. Better that she doesn’t know.

 

_It's alright._

The empty beer drops from his hand as he blindly stumbles to the door. On the pavement outside his house, he tries to wave down a cab, all the while biting back the rush of memories that threatens to overwhelm him. Inside the cab is no better. He can’t help but glance at the seat next to him, hoping that the seat would be filled. He knows that it isn’t. It’s too cold. Too quiet.

He doesn’t remember telling the cabbie his destination but arrives there anyways. It was their home. The gold numbers used to shine with pride. Like an announcement that someone great lives here. Lived here. They don’t shine anymore. Worn by time that had never seemed to exist before. The two of them had lived in an eternity of their own. A place where minutes lasted a lifetime.

The knocker is hanging straight down now. He always used to leave it crooked so Sher-Sherlock would know that John wasn’t home.  Seems like a useless task now. He had always known anyway.

 

_No one really knows his mind and no one knows behind his eyes._

                He had hidden it for so long. A bright smile when they were looking, but the second that their head turned the smile would slip off his face. Sherlock has always claimed he was a bad actor. That he could never hide his emotions. If only he could see John now. All the pain he felt was presented as if he had lost his favorite stapler, not as if he lost his best friend. John straightened himself and took a deep breath. In, out, and let it go. He is a soldier. He had lost friends before, so why did this one hurt so badly? Why was this one ripping him apart with every memory?

                His aqua blue eyes were filled with tears that he couldn’t risk spilling. He knew that if one fell the others would follow. He didn’t think they would stop. He has so much built up inside of him and he wanted it out, he wanted it gone. He wants it all to stop. God Sherlock, why? Why had he left him all alone? Did he not care about him?

 

_The man deserves a medal_

_But he's never really won a prize before._

                John was angry. He had put up with so much bullshit from Sherlock. Following he around like a love sick puppy, just searching for that pat on the head. He was nothing more than an errand boy. Go fetch this, go fetch that. Hand me my pen, give me your laptop. And John would do it, because it was always him that got to see that smile. The excitement that burst from him with ever new case.  

                How many times had John followed Sherlock up and down these stairs? The 17 steps to their sanctuary. How many times had he crossed this threshold to a bored Sherlock, wrapped up in a robe and handing upside down from the couch?

                The anger dissipated leaving the ever-present sadness in its place.

 

_He goes to lock the door._

 

                He knew no-one would bother him. They all thought he was better now. That he had moved on. After all he had a wife and a nice little house. A stable job and a good friends. No, they would worry about him. Not for a while anyway.

                Standing in the flat was the key to Pandora’s Box of memories he had always fought to keep down. He opened it now. He let the memories spill out of him. He let the tears go. Neither one was willing to stop, flowing through him in full force.

 

_He is falling in love_

 

                Sherlock Holmes was a crime scene in himself.  A raging disaster that you could not help but look at. A danger that only attracts when it should have pushed away. A bucketful of information if only you knew how to tap into it.  Sherlock was the body who had been torn down, yet refused to stop fighting and give in until death took over. He was the droplet of blood. Glimmering and bright. Complex in every way. He was the footprints in the dirt that always let to the answer. He was amazing.

                John couldn’t help fall for him. Soulmates be damned. They were more than happenstance and good timing. They were drawn together, as if calling out for one another. The Doctor and The Detective complementing each other far better than fate could have ever constructed.  They could have been together had time allowed it. Just one more small eternity in their infinity.

_He knows it's enough_

                He knows he should stop now before he takes it too far. Could haves and should haves were never going to bring him back. He was gone. John knows that if he carries on like this it would end it. End it. But would that really be that bad? The final peace and quiet he has been striving for. No more thoughts. No more thinking.

                He looks down to find another bottle in his hands. It is scotch this time. A gift from Mycroft on his last birthday. Cracking it open, John sinks into his worn-out chair and gazes at the empty one taunting him.

 

_And the world looks down and frowns_

                He knows he will be missed. He knows that he will cause everyone pain and sadness, but they got over someone as amazing as Sherlock. He would fade quickly enough. They would soon forget him and that was alright. That is how he would prefer it anyway. Just a blimp that passed by.

                He was grateful that Mrs. Hudson had not touched any of Sherlock’s things. That Sherlock’s knife was still keeping guard of the bills that never got payed. That it still gleamed its menacing smile.

                Wrenching it free from its place, John ran a thumb over the edge. He smiled as it glided over the skin and at the rubies that emerged beneath the torn skin. Sherlock always did take pride in his equipment. Making sure it was always ready for use. Always sharp.

                John wanted to savor the pain before it took him. To let out all the pain inside him flow through the marks on his skin. 

 

_Get up Johnny boy, get up Johnny boy,_

                The first line down his wrist felt like releasing a breath he had been holding for far too long. He knew what Sherlock would say if he saw him here sitting on the floor staring at an empty chair. He would tell him to get up and stop all of this. He would say that John was being an idiot. But that was the problem. Sherlock wasn’t here and the second line made him ache for the life that was long out of reach.

 

_Get up 'cause the world has left you lying on the ground._

                The memories soared through him landing on the day he would least like to remember.  The ledge. The light shining behind him making him seem like the angel he claimed he never was. Armed stretched like a God commanding his followers. The lies that dripped from his lips matched the lines on John’s skin.

I invented Moriarty.

I’m a fake.

The Newspapers were right.

I researched you.

It’s a trick.

Lies! They were all lies and Sherlock was an idiot if he thought John would believe them. If he thought that John would ever seem as anything other than the Brilliant detective he knew.

 

_You're my pride and joy, you're my pride and joy._

                Sherlock was a genius. Anyone who had met knew it. He knew Sherlock didn’t invent Moriarty. He had seen the detective’s eye that day in the swimming pool. He knew that it wasn’t made up. John knows how to spot fear and it was clear as day on written on Sherlock’s face.  He refused to believe Sherlock could ever be called a fake.

                This was the man that deduced strangers to make John smile. The one who took cases from the police because John always liked them more even when they wouldn’t get paid. The person who would make jokes so John would laugh at a crime scene. He was amazed by Sherlock.

 

_Get up Johnny boy because we all need you now._

                But they don’t need him. No-one need him anymore. He is just a broken soldier. The doctor that can’t stitch himself back together. He is lost and unreliable. He can fix other but he is letting himself crumble and he makes line after line on the red puckered skin. Healing others while destroying himself. He is giving up the battle he spend so long trying to win.

 

_We all need you now._

                He has pushed all of his friends away. His wife won’t notice he is gone because she has her own life. He hasn’t visited Mrs. Hudson since he packed some clothes and left. Why would the need him anyway. The one person who needed him most jumped off a building and nothing John could say would make it better. His limp returned. His hand shakes almost constantly now. He can’t help himself, why would anyone think he could help them?

_Someone said, "Where you going?"_

                Nobody could believe it when he followed Sherlock. They couldn’t see why he would associate with a psychopath. They didn’t understand what made John stay. They tried to warn him again and again. Frowning when they heard about the experiments and cases. Claiming he should run away from the crazy detective, not to him. John never listened. He knew better than them. He knew Sherlock.

 

_Someone said to you, "Goodbye."_

                It is funny how a word that has been said a thousand times can completely devastate a person within a second. Goodbye, John.  He hated to remember yet feared to forget. How could he wipe the painful memory of last words when it was the last time he would ever hear that voice again? The term “goodbye” originally came from the phrase “God be with ye” before it was compressed into one simple word. John wished that it still meant what it used to mean. That God would save him. That God wouldn’t let him fall. But John didn’t believe in God anymore. Not after that.

 

_They deflect the disrespect when they say that they blame it on the times_

                They blamed his suicide on greed. They said that the Great Detective wanted to be known as the best that ever came. That he wanted to be a legend. They said he wanted fame, for people to worship him. He was a show off, and this time he wanted a bigger audience. They claimed that a blaze of glory would be the biggest show off he could get. Way better than dying in an ally because he wasn’t as invincible as he liked to pretend.

 

_They blame it on the time._

                It was only a matter of time before he got caught up in one of his lies. Before the world realized that he was a fake and his reputation laid as his feet in shreds. They claimed that it was he who spun too many webs and finally got stuck in his trap. Sherlock was making a name for himself and with headlines came people digging into his past. With the world today it is easy to find that sneaky little information that everyone tries to hide. People kill themselves all the time, maybe he just wanted to finally solve the mystery of death. Too bad he wouldn’t be here to share.

 

_We all know you're qualified to fix a chair and love your wife_

                John could pull himself up right now and call an ambulance. They would fix the bleeding marks up and down his arms. They would call his wife and she would visit. His friends would visit. He would be met with disappointed stares, pitying glances, disgusted looks. They would lock him away in some place with white walls and happy little pills and nothing to distract him from his mind. Yes, John would still be breathing. But he would never be alive.  

 

_They all know you're qualified but they lie when they blame it on the times._

                John looked down at the growing number of cuts lining his arms. They know he is a doctor. They know he could have fixed this. They he had the power to choose life. They would forgive him, though. They would list a line of mental illnesses. Claim it was PSTD and watching a friend jump triggered it again. They would say it was the depression. They would be wrong. He is not trying to kill himself because he can’t live without Sherlock.  He is killing himself because he does not want to. He had to deal with life before. The loneliness. He does not want that again. He has a choice.

 

_And we blame it on the times._

                He could picture the newspapers articles tomorrow. Blogger Follows Detective to Grave. The Doctor That Refused to Stitch. Lonely Man Ends It All. But in reality it would be none of those because he knew that they would shove it to the back. A little blip in the obituaries. He was no-one and into death he would go, without a sound.

 

_He is falling in love_

                His detective fell to the ground as he fell in love. Life and Death, Love and Loss. Why did they have to be tied up in one another? Why did they have to confess sorrow and yet never confess love?  You don’t know love until you lost it. John knew love and sometimes you can’t always find everything you lose. Sometimes you can find it. Sometimes it’s under a stone engraved with a date.

 

_He knows it's enough_

                His love for Sherlock. Sherlock, who said no-one loved him. Sherlock who was wrong. John loved Sherlock and all the sentiment that went with it. No one should die in this world without knowing that they were loved. Sherlock loved John. He knew it was true. One love in enough for John. It’s all he really needs anyway.

 

_And the world looks down and frowns_

Let them frown. Let them hate the fact that he choose death over domestic. That he would rather follow Sherlock Holmes to the grave than his wife to bed. Everyone has choices in this world and John picked love over pretend emotions.

_Get up Johnny boy, get up Johnny boy_

                The time for getting up and fixing this is long over. He won’t be getting up anymore. The blood has soaked into the carpet. He doesn’t feel the pain anymore.

 

_Get up 'cause the world has left you lying on the ground._

                The world left Sherlock on the ground and John wouldn’t mind being left anymore.

 

_You're my pride and joy, you're my pride and joy._

                John loves Sherlock Holmes.

 

_Get up Johnny boy because we all need you now._

There will be other doctors, other friends.

_We all need you now_

                They will be fine.

_I will carry all your names and I will carry all your shame_

                They can put it all on me.

 

_And I will carry all your names and I will carry all your shame_

                He will make sure his name lives on.

 

_And I will carry all your names and I will carry all your shame_

 

                Sherlock’s name will be cleared.

_Get up Johnny boy, get up Johnny boy_

_Get up 'cause the world has left you lying on the ground._

_You're my pride and joy, you're my pride and joy._

_Get up Johnny boy because we all need you now._

_Get up Johnny boy, get up Johnny boy_

_Get up 'cause the world has left you lying on the ground._

_You're my pride and joy, you're my pride and joy._

_Get up Johnny boy because we all need you now._

**Author's Note:**

> Well You made it through! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I really hope you enjoyed it. (can I even say that when I killed our favorite characters?)  
> Please comment and leave kudos if you liked it. They always make my day :)
> 
> I might be going back through this and cleaning it up a bit and maybe add more so FYI


End file.
